


Something Like That

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Damned, The Lost, and Forgotten [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/M, Flirting, Hero/Rogue Relationship, Protective Barry Allen, Slow Burn, Starting Over, Unconventional Relationship, Unusual Pairings, episode s01e12 Crazy For You, mild canon-typical violence, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: "Catch me if you can."
Relationships: Barry Allen & Iris West (friendship), Lashawn "Shawna" Baez & Barry Allen, Lashawn "Shawna" Baez/Clay Parker
Series: The Damned, The Lost, and Forgotten [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/686199
Kudos: 2





	Something Like That

“Catch me if you can.”

Shawna Baez plays this game all the time, the cat-and-mouse game, because she learned a long time ago that men love what they have to chase. 

It’s a balancing act, this game. _Too hot_ : men won’t bite, won’t even give a second glance, because there’s no excitement involved; nothing to work with because it’s all right there, ‘Take me now’ and ‘Whatever, whenever, wherever you want’. _Too cold_ : men will play the game for a bit, try to defrost ice, and then they give up because even a man who loves the chase will never resort to using an ice pick just for a good time. Men don’t like too much effort and they don’t want it all laid out on the table. Finding the balance is an art, a fine-tuned skill, and she’s honed this skill for years.

Clay caught her, once, during one of many public displays of devil-may-care attitude and more than a couple ‘Screw you’ to the world and its rules. Clay caught her, and from there it was a wild ride. Mostly ups, a few downs—namely his capture and consequent lock-up—but wild, wild, _wild_ ride all around. And she’s a girl that loves a good ride.

She always imagined Clay would be the one to catch her. The one who would be there if she tripped, stumbled, lost her balance; always there with open arms before she hit the ground. The only one. She can hold her own just fine, but a girl likes to know someone’s there. Someone’s got your back.

So it’s strange—not good, not bad, just strange—to have someone else who can catch her. Someone who hears her challenge and accepts it before he learns the rules of the game (granted, there aren’t any), knows who and what he’s up against and dives in headfirst, all-systems-go, ‘Let’s play, baby’.

She’s heard of him. The Scarlet Speedster, The Red Streak, _The Flash_. They say he’s fast, and he is. They say he can outrun anything and anyone. Not sure about the outrunning thing, but he keeps up and she’ll give credit where credit is due. He’s fast, and he’s fun to play with.

There’s a moment when he catches her, when he rushes forward and grabs her arms and she grabs his, right before she rips the ground out from under his feet and takes him along for a private ride, when their eyes meet. And there’s a moment, in that little sliver of time, when Shawna thinks he might understand her. Might like playing with her. Might even like _her_.

But she’s already got a man. 

“Not too many men can keep up with me.” She says, with the cat-who-got-the-canary smile that men like to look at because it means a girl is up for a good time and down for whatever, and she’s gone. Gone, and leaves him to dangle like a worm on a fisher’s hook. She expects he’ll still be there, when she returns with the next batch of goods but then he’s there again. Back for round two, revved up and ready to go. 

And there’s a moment, just a moment, when their eyes meet again. No words, no playful banter, but their eyes meet and her eyes speak: _What are you doing?_

The Flash, whoever he really is, has a steady gaze, not the uncertain shifting or blank stares of most guys, and his gaze answers: _I **can** catch you._

It’s almost a pity when Clay shoots him. She was enjoying herself, just a little. It’s nice to have someone chase after her again. It’s been a long time, and a girl does enjoy being chased, from time to time. It makes her feel wanted, desired.

But that’s okay. She’s already got a man.

***

“Why the hell do you care what we do?” she demands. “Are you a cop or something?”

It’s a stupid question; no cop in the city dresses like that, or acts like that: like he enjoys the chase, like he gets to the point where he can catch her but then won’t because he really, really likes the chase, because that’s the best part of the game. She knows cops. He’s not a cop.

“Something like that.” Flash answers, holding her gaze with steady eyes. She wishes they were closer, maybe even that they had more time. She has the sudden urge to look closer into his eyes, to see what color they are, to see what’s beneath the mask. Is he young—obviously, he’s _young_ , but is he really young, a little boy, or is he older? What does his face look like? What does…?

No. _None of that._ She already has a man, and that’s why she has to deal with him: the Flash, the one who just keeps showing up no matter where they are and no matter how fast they try to get away. There’s no time for games. Not anymore.

Still…she thinks, as she delivers the first blow, she’ll miss this game.

But he surprises her. He’s not ready to give it up, not yet. He matches her. Hit for hit, strike for strike; up, down, along one wall, to the other wall, rolling across the road, left to right, back to the left, twice to the right, kick, hit, kick, kick. She tries to kick him off; he locks her legs in place. She tries to roll away and free herself; he catches her around the waist, tosses her to the side, but then lets her catch her balance and breathe before they’re back to it. Absurd as it is, she can’t help but feel they’re dancing. A strange, warped, seriously out-of-whack dance. And she loves it.

When it happens, it’s by accident. He catches her by the arms, she twists free, they fall against the construction truck; he tilts forward at the same time she happens to jerk upward, looking for a weak spot in his hold…and it happens. His mouth, her lips, right there. It’s messy, misaligned, and awkward. She freezes. So does he. She can see his eyes now, a handful of inches away from hers. _Green._ His eyes are green.

A few short minutes later, she sees those eyes again. This time, the green is dulled, blotted out by the surrounding darkness. His silhouette is less distinct, the red almost brown without proper lighting, but still she sees him. Still, she feels his green eyes on her, silent. She’s the one who breaks it, with a quiet whisper that muffles the choke of a broken heart and damaged pride.

“He left me.”

Silence, again. She sits in the darkness, staring ahead at nothing. Her eyes burn, and when she presses fingertips to both, she feels tears. She manages to wipe away most, but one escapes. He sees it. She feels his gaze, prepares to lash out for his pity that she doesn’t want and doesn’t need…but that’s not what she feels. 

So she looks at him, meets his gaze in the dark, and the breath is crushed from her lungs. She can’t find pity. She sees…something else, but it’s not pity. Another tear falls, and then another. She thinks, maybe, she should wipe them away, but she doesn’t. She waits. And when his hand reaches out, red leather ghosting across her face, catching the small streams, brushing away, she doesn’t recoil, and she doesn’t strike his hand away. It’s barely a touch. There are no marks left as proof, but her skin remembers.

“Are you going to leave me too?” she asks.

“No.” He says. She thinks he might be telling the truth.

“What’s going to happen now?” It’s a stupid question. She’s going to jail, to prison. She’s going to pay for her crimes, be locked up for a little while in a place that can’t truly hold her. Maybe they’ll put her in a cell with no lights, but even cells have windows. Maybe they’ll put her in a cell with no windows and no lights, but sooner or later, that door will be opened and there will be a little ray of light and she’ll be free.

She’s wrong.

There is light, lots of light, and there is a door that must open, somewhere, somehow, but she can’t find it. There are only walls, thinly cushioned in plaques of bright blue, and her. She can’t get out. She can’t see to get out. This is her new home, her new cell. Her prison.

“Shawna,” his voice breaks the silence, omnipresent, faceless and bodiless, like God Himself, and she looks up as if to the heavens, awaiting her judgment, “if you know where Clay might be…please tell me.”

She can’t help a tiny, albeit unamused smile. _Please tell me._ Even now, he’s a gentleman, not an interrogator. Judge, juror, and jailer, but still a gentleman. She thinks back to earlier, when she threw a question to which she already had an answer: _Are you a cop or something?_

_Something like that._

“Looks like I didn’t know him as well as I thought.” She finally answers. She can’t see him, but she assumes he can see her; that on the other side of these walls, Flash sees her face even when she can’t see his, and he sees the pulse of her throat that means tears are trying to come and she won’t let them. She’s cried enough tonight. “Can’t help you.”

_I would, if I could_ , she doesn’t say. She wonders if he still hears it.

***

Dropping the tip to Iris turns out to be an even better decision than Barry thought. The article, promising a reward for any information leading to the arrest of Clay Barker, brings out all the colorful characters in Central City. Most of them are dead-ends, a few others are downright absurd; a couple more seem valid and then shrivel and die. Finally, the legitimate lead they need comes in, while Barry happens to be passing through the squad room. No one pays attention when his ears perk up, his head turns just a little, and he seems to be listening closely to every word exchanged between Eddie and the caller. No one notices when Barry is standing at the sergeant’s desk one minute and then gone the next, with only a strange rustling breeze to replace him.

He finds Clay in some dingy, run-down warehouse that hasn’t actually served a purpose for close to a decade. As the Flash, he has the element of surprise on his side: he gets the gun as far out of Barker’s reach as possible before the other man even realizes he has company. He’s half-drunk, and it takes a minute for him to recognize the man in red standing a short distance away. It takes another minute for him to stand without dropping to the floor.

“Where’s the Calvary?” Barker asks, rather stupidly.

“On their way.” Barry answers. Specifically, they should be right around the corner. He estimates five minutes before he hears sirens.

“So, what, you’re the little gopher now?”

_Wow_ , this guy is really obnoxious when he’s drunk. “Just the messenger.” He finally replies; he doesn’t have a warrant, he isn’t a cop, he can’t arrest this guy. He can’t even lay a hand on this guy, not unless Barker tries to take a swing.

He’d be lying to pretend he doesn’t want him to, at least just to give him a reason.

“Yeah, well, message received.” Barker mumbles, waving a hand as though dismissing him. “Run along now.”

“Like you did?”

That gets Barker’s attention, complete with a glare and a tight grip on the beer can. “Want to run that by me again, smart ass?”

“You heard me the first time, Barker.” Barry says. He’s poking the bear, overstepping the boundaries, pushing the line, the whole nine yards, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. All he sees, painted across the front of his brain, are thin clear lines running down warm brown skin, dribbling across his fingertips. He’d felt them, even through his gloves. Just like he’d felt her.

The implications fly over Barker’s alcohol-fused brain and venture into some unknown realm of the universe. But he’s still pissed. He stands up, brandishing the beer can and sending little spits of booze flying this way and that, using a few choice words in the mix. He advocates for innocence, that it wasn’t his fault, that it wasn’t his idea, that he just went with it and he’s not responsible for anything.

“She broke you out.” Barry nods, stepping a little closer. “But you left her. _That_ is on you. And _that_ is what’s going to send you back where you belong. Away from her.”

He shouldn’t have said the last part.

Barker smirks and comes two steps nearer. “Well, look at that.” He slurs. “The Scarlet Speedster has a thing for bad girls. Where’d you put her? Iron Heights? A basement with extra padlocks? Or did you put her up somewhere special, where no one can find her but you?”

***

“Tripped and fell, huh?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Barry answers, filing away the last of his reports, staring into the cabinet as though it’s the most fascinating item in existence, while Joe leans against the desk, arms crossed, fingers tap-tap-tapping his sleeves.

“Must have been a pretty nasty fall.” Joe finally declares. “Broke his nose in two places.”

“Did it?”

“It did.”

“Sounds like really good motivation to not get drunk.” Barry zips over to his desk and starts knocking out reports like the world is ending in five minutes. “Terrible for your health.”

***

“You found him?”

“Yeah.”

Shawna nods, stretched out across the cell floor, idly picking at some random spot beside her leg. “Is he going back to prison?”

“Yeah.”

“For a long time?”

“A very long time.”

Barry thinks, maybe, a tiny smirk, a fleeting brush of satisfaction, runs across her lips before it’s gone before he can officially determine what, exactly, he saw. The silence falls between them, comfortably so, and he starts to walk away. He’s said what he needs to say, and now it’s back to the world above, away from this makeshift prison and its inmates. When he walks away, he can pretend he isn’t judge and jury and jailer. It’s a lie, but he can always pretend.

“You sorry for kissing me?”

He pauses, mid-step, and then smirks. She’ll never see the smirk, but he’ll make sure she hears it in his voice. “Better check your memory, Shawna. _You_ kissed me.”

“Don’t flattery yourself, Speedy.” The sarcasm is overwhelming, but there’s an underlying hint of amusement there, somewhere, and maybe even something else. Something more. “I don’t kiss on the first date.”

Barry turns; she can’t see him, but it doesn’t matter. She still knows he’s there. He knows she knows. “Till the second date, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting back into "The Flash" (2014) and picking up this series again. Comments and kudos are love. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just playing in the sandbox.


End file.
